Every Artist Creates With Open Eyes What

This Life Is A War We Are Not Yet Winning For Our Daughters' Children. Don't Do Your Enemies' Work For Them. Finish Your Own.

Shared Laughter Is Erotic Too.

The Work Of The World Is Common As Mud. Botched, It Smears The Hands, Crumbles To Dust. But The Thing Worth Doing Well Done Has A Shape That Satisfies, Clean And Evident.

I Mourn In Grey, Grey As The Sleeted Wind The Bled Shades Of Twilight, Gunmetal, Battleships, Industrial Paint.

With My Poems, I Finally Won Even My Mother. The Longest Wooing Of My Life.